I Don't Believe In Coincedences
by GreenEyesStaring
Summary: The justice crusader suddenly becomes the victim. In the middle of a case, Munch falls prey to the perpetrator and, together with the case's original victim, must wait in uselessness while the squad plays a game for their lives.
1. Chapter 1

This is a story I started ages back, but never finished for a myriad of reasons. It's back, though, and better'n ever, I should think. Written in response to the sudden lack of Munch observed in SVU back during the 2006-2007 season, which marked the beginning of Much-lite SVU episodes which continue to this day.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Law and Order SVU or any of the characters wherein. Those are property of Dick Wolf, Wolf Films, and NBC. If they were property of me, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction for it...or would I? Eh, point is I own Haley Owens. Without further ado, I present:

**I Don't Believe In Coincedences**

**by**

**GreenEyesStaring**

**

* * *

  
**

"Put down the gun,"

Unsurprisingly, the command did little good. The armed man stood his ground, his exterior unfathomably cool: his feet were apart in a dominating power stance, gun aimed squarely at the victim with one perfectly controlled hand, and his breathing a steady rhythm. The only hint of an abnormality rested in his glistening blue eyes. They held the glimmer of angry desperation within their pupils, the hopelessness of a trapped animal; a madman hid amidst their anxious glint.

And before them, stood a sixteen-year-old girl, and John Munch. The latter of the pair was cursing. He was not entirely sure why he was cursing, it had never done anything to alleviate the stress of being held at gunpoint before, so Munch had no reason to refer to it now, be he did so anyway. He supposed it was human nature – there really was very little good one could see in a hostage situation. The way he looked at it, if he wasn't cursing, his mind was racing. In the dimly-lit chamber, Munch assessed the situation as well as he could.

The armed man was about three feet away from the girl, the case's official victim, and seven feet away from him, the case's unintended victim. He looked at the barrel of the gun and cursed once more. His gun. He'd been so stupid…what kind of New Yorker was that kind of careless? The silver barrel hovered a little before the madman's extended hand, aimed at the girl. Munch stood frozen in place, alternating his vision from the gun to the girl's back. She was not moving (hell, Munch doubted if she was even breathing), because she knew as well as Munch that her next step could be her last.

Munch cleared his throat, and spoke again in the most commanding tones he could muster without shouting, "I said put down the gun."

"You've seen too much," the man stated. His even tone scared Munch far more than a wild, unstable one would have. Without his glasses, Munch couldn't see too well into the distance, but when the white shimmers of the man's eyes turned toward him, Munch was aware that the man was facing him, and he felt something very cold drop into the pit of his stomach. "There's no way I'd be stupid enough to let you out of here."

"At least let the girl go," Munch pleaded, fighting the alarm rising in his throat. He looked ahead, to where the victim, Haley Owens, was standing, just four feet in front of him. She stood in a stance very much like Munch's: arms raised, back straight, and legs slightly bent at the knees. "Let her go. She won't talk; I swear."

"They all talk," the man replied casually. Munch could not detect the hysterical whine very often appreciated in the voice of a person aiming a gun. This guy was calm, as if he did this so often, it had lost its edge. Munch was a cop, and he still couldn't draw a gun on someone without feeling an observable rush. "So you have to do away with them before they _do_ get a chance to blab." He jammed the gun in the girl's direction. "And you're a gentleman, Detective, right?"

Munch calculated his answer, having no idea where the question was leading. He slowly nodded. "I was last time I checked."

"Good, good, then you agree with me on my ladies first policy," he said, nodding at this statement as if the answer were obvious. "So, in the spirit of chivalry, state your last words."

Haley let out a deep, ragged breath as the gun came to find itself two inches from her forehead. Slowly, knowing that her life was up anyway, she turned to face Munch, her eyes hiding fear. For having a gun aimed at her head, she seemed unreasonably calm. Swallowing hard, she blinked a single tear from her eye and quickly sniffed defiantly against the falling drop. She focused on Munch's eyes, one of which was turning blue around the socket from being punched, and she beamed at him through her cracked and bloodied lips. With a very nervous, bubbly chuckle, she offered him two thumbs up. "Thanks for the awesome company. I'm really glad I got to spend my last day with someone so brilliant. Now I'm sure, Detective, this was no damn coincidence."

At the sight of her smiling face and the tear running down Haley's battered cheek, Munch's heart split into several different pieces. Upon hearing her final words, hearing them wasted on the situation, his stomach tightened into a knot. Munch's nerves were weak, ravaged from the long, long hours since this ordeal had begun, and he had very little emotional strength left; he sure as hell did not have the strength left to deal with watching an innocent sixteen-year-old get shot in the head right before his eyes. Chocking back a fist-sized lump of tears and vomit, Munch took a step forward, hands still raised at his sides, and gave the man another command,

"Let her go. You can have me, but you _have to let her go_."

The man gave a very wide smile. Munch heard the clinking of metal as the man tightened his grip around the gun. A deep chuckle rumbled through the room. "I thought you said you were a gentleman, Detective Munch. Hmph, no such thing, I see. But there's no need to bargain. I promise you'll both get your turn at the barrel. However, if you're so eager to see Nothingness, I think that can be arranged…" The silver gun flashed suddenly, changing from Haley's forehead to Munch. He had just enough time to realize he'd dug his own grave before he heard the horrible, gripping sound of the gun being fired.

Contrary to literature, film, and television, time did not freeze for John Munch as the bullet sailed from the barrel toward his chest. There was no moment of revelation when he saw excerpts from his childhood and was suddenly swamped by the realization of his life's meaning. Nothing like that at all. Munch heard the sound of the shot, and closed his eyes to brace himself for the pain. He heard the distinctive shouts of Haley, the man, the scurry of footsteps; all of it happened within the span of seconds. And they felt like seconds.

"Detective!"

He heard a grunt of pain as something heavy slammed against him. Against his chest, to be exact. He felt something rip into his shoulder. He was thrown back by the force of impact, his chest feeling heavy, weighed down; his eyes remained closed and dared not look up into what was sure to be Haley's horrified face. He was a coward, a damn big coward. He'd failed her, he'd failed her, he'd failed her. And even as he fell into a swimming blackness, he couldn't bear to look at her for fear of his face betraying what fate awaited her. He should have kept his mouth shut, protected her. Now he was leaving her vulnerable. Munch felt contact with the cold floor, felt his already injured head hit the floor. And he passed out.

John Munch was having a bad day.

* * *

In all honesty, Munch's day had started off pretty well. He had woken up that morning after a full night's sleep, which was hard to do on a Detective's schedule. He had vacated his bed (however lonely it was) with an unusual spring in his step. He'd showered, shaved, and dressed to the sound of CNN echoing throughout the apartment, and was very pleased, how by the end of an hour, no one had said anything utterly stupid. Munch had even been aware (and he felt shamefully vain about this) of how cooperative his hair had been with the direction of the brush this morning. Even his breakfast of toast, an egg, and half a grapefruit had tasted better than usual, which was big thing to say about the toast, which his ancient toaster had recently taken to burning into inedible clumps. As he'd thrown on his coat and capped his head with his signature hat, Much sprung lightly from his apartment and made his way to the precinct.

Munch had made such good time from his home to the precinct, that he had deviated from his usual course and ducked into a small convenience store to buy a cup of coffee and a newspaper. As he'd waited in line to pay for his morning drink, he'd scanned the paper's headlines and was pleasantly surprised to see that there was nothing too horrible going on in the world this morning. Despite knowing that the headlines were never anything to base his day off of, Munch allowed the morning's good news to lift his spirits even higher. He didn't think the morning could get any better until the cashier at the store made a mistake ringing up his order, and gave him a free doughnut for his troubles. Though he would have preferred a Krispy Kreme over a generic 24-Hour Mart doughnut, he took the sweet pastry anyway and headed for the office. By the time he had physically entered the precinct and sat down at his desk (the doughnut hadn't survived the three-minute walk from the mart to the precinct), Detective John Munch of Manhattan's Special Victims Unit was sure today was going to be a good day. And after Olivia had showed up with a large box of actual Krispy Kremes, Munch was convinced that nothing, not a thing at all, could go wrong today.

An amateur mistake.

The call came in at about ten-thirty that slow, November morning, interrupting the squad's game of wastebasket-ball. Circumstances being what they were, Munch found himself in the lead, tied with Elliot, which hadn't happened for a good amount of games. Olivia was close behind them, and Fin, oddly enough, was trailing the leaders by five points, and Olivia by three. Said detective took another shot at the wastebasket from his seat, as defined by the rules, and made a clean basket. He gave a whoop of delight, and preformed the obligatory victory spin in his desk chair.

"Now, don't get too cocky, Fin," Elliot warned with a smirk as he smashed up more paper projectiles. "Allow me to remind you that you're still losing."

"Yes, thank you," Fin replied in deadpan. He shot both Munch and Elliot a sour glance, "How in the hell am I losing to two white boys? No, never mind that, how in the hell am I losing to John?" Ignoring Munch's snort of disdain, Fin picked up a crumpled paper ball, and lightly tossed it across his desk, across Munch's, and into the older detective's lap. "Someone's been practicing at home I see. You've got a nice arm today."

Munch picked up the paper and smiled over the rim of his glasses at his partner. "You, on the other hand, don't. So, don't waste your good shots, Fin. You're going to need all of them if you plan on catching up with Olivia, let alone surpass me." He chucked the paper ball back at Fin's desk, where it landed in Fin's open cup of coffee. The Black detective fished the wad out of his coffee, threw it into another wastebasket, and gave Munch a mean smirk reminiscent of the kind little kids give each other when they realize someone else has the upper hand.

Tapping the end of her pen to the desktop, Olivia surveyed the points on the sheet of paper in front of her and sighed. "Alright, Fin, you made that basket, which means you cleared the ten-point mark, so you're still in the game. We have Elliot and John at fourteen, I'm holding twelve, and you're at ten. I don't think you're winning this one, buddy." She looked up from her tally marks at Fin, who seemed to be deep in thought about his wrist, which he kept flexing back and forth. "John, you're up. If you make this shot, you'll be in the lead, if you miss, of course, Elliot one-up's you and becomes the leader."

Determined, and in very high spirits about possibly winning the game for the first time since mid-July, Munch crumpled up a sheet of the regulation yellow writing pad paper into a compact ball. He reclined in his desk chair, tossing the ball lightly up and down in his hand for confidence, and took aim. His target, the wastepaper basket, was sitting atop Olivia's desk, cold and unmoving, daring him to take a chance. He raised the paper ball, measuring the distance carefully; he didn't usually do this, measure the distance, it had never helped him before, but today his methods were being rather productive, so he banked on them this one time. He drew his hand back as he got ready to shoot and felt nervous. A phone rang somewhere off the left of the large room, but Munch fought against its persistent, irritating sound and kept his well-honed focus on the basket across the smile isle. Something inside him told Munch the shot wasn't quite ready to be made yet. It needed a little more time to…stew. To just sit there and think about being a little paper ball whose sole purpose was to land in the wastebasket across the way. Just a little longer…one…two…two and half…bending the wrist…almost ready…taking it slightly forward…and…

"People!"

Dammit! Munch had flicked his wrist at the same time that Cragen had come out of his office with the startling call-to-arms. Startled to hear the booming voice in the otherwise quiet room, Munch's concentration tore apart and his focus shattered. His whole body jerked at the unexpected call and his meticulously-aimed ball veered to the left, completely missing the wastebasket and hitting Olivia in the face before bouncing into her lap, and subsequently, the floor. Damn. Growling inwardly, Munch lifted his eyes from the paper ball on the floor, and gave his full attention to Cragen. He found himself thinking that what Cragen had to say had better be very important, or the Captain was going to have to pay for making Munch miss his shot. And the payment would be evil, cruel; stolen licorice and misplaced trinkets of sentimental value made their way to the top of Munch's revenge list.

"People, we've got a case."

At the sound of a case, at the sound of their jobs, at the sound of their very life's purpose, the four detectives started to move. Olivia capped her score-keeping pen and put the scoreboard away in her desk drawer, then straightened up to hear what Cragen had to say. Fin quickly returned the wastebaskets to their original places, and spun in a neat half-circle so that he could make eye-contact with his good Captain. Elliot stood up, quickly collecting the paper balls on the floor into the office's newly-assigned recycle bin. He held the bin out for Munch to deposit the handful of paper wads he had rescued from the wastebasket. "We'll continue this next time we get a chance; good game, John."

"Gotta make sure someone keeps you on your toes," Munch said, a bit disappointed that his one chance to win at wastebasket ball had been taken away from him in such an ungraceful manner. However, there was no time to be sore about the wins that could have been when there was police work to be done. He sunk back into his chair, now over his lost chance, and paid intent attention at the bald man in charge.

Donald Cragen, captain of the Manhattan Special Victims Unit, stood at the center of the room, arms crossed over his chest. Munch noticed that today Cragen wore a rather haggard expression on his wrinkled face the likes of which the squad was treated to only rarely. "Sorry to ruin your slow morning, but we have a case."

"What's up, Cap'n?" Fin asked, picking up on the Captain's more serious tone. He exchanged glances with his squad mates, realizing that they, too had noticed the stark contrast in Cragen this morning.

"We just got a call from Missing Persons," the captain said. "A sixteen-year-old girl never made it to school this morning. Missing Persons called because they think we may have more information about this than they do."

"Why's that?" Elliot asked, taking a side-long glance at the evidence board in the back of the room. It was empty save for a few traces of paper from some of their recurring cases, the latest of which had gone bone-dry two months prior. Trying to keep the discussion light, Elliot laughed, "The Coney Island Exhibitionist hasn't gone missing, has he?"

Light chuckles went up from his fellow detectives. "That would be a pity," Munch added. "He's their single most popular tourist attraction."

"But God knows he's not their _biggest _attraction," Olivia quipped with a coy smile. The hoots that followed her comment subsided quickly at the sight of Captain Cragen's un-amused glare. Professionalism set back into the four adults as soon as it had left them and silence once again reigned in the office. Olivia sized up her superior officer with a curious look. "You're scaring me, Captain. What could be this bad?"

"Missing Persons redirected the call to us because the caller, who also happens to be the only witness, said they saw the victim get dragged into a back alley by a man in a red baseball cap."

And those words had been enough. The team simultaneously went rigid in their seats, as the news and its implications sunk thoroughly in. Each detective's reaction was, while unique to them, the exact same thing. Elliot's eyebrows raised in surprise as tensed his arms resting across his chest; Olivia redirected her glance at the floor, jaw set in stout refusal to be visibly bothered by the news; Fin placed his arms behind his head, blinked for stability, and let out a long and tired sigh; and Munch remained still, his chin cradled his hand, expression unreadable behind his dark lenses. No said a thing, at least not immediately.

Cragen felt their anxiety. This case, ongoing now for the better part of a year, had been one of their most taxing jobs in a very long time. In the four months since they had heard anything about it, his squad had needed to have two joint therapy sessions to shake the horrors of the case. It was evident why none of them were eager to go rushing back into it, but life rarely cared about things like that. Since receiving the phone call two minutes prior to the announcement, Cragen had mulled over how he was going to break the news to his squad without giving them too much of a shock; but one didn't exactly have too much time to mull and ponder when the walk from your desk chair to the bullpen was all of thirty seconds long.

"The Mind Games Rapist," Fin said definitely into the heavy silence. A series of shivers went up around the room at the very name.

"Aw, crap," Elliot said. He unwound his arms from his chest and began tapping the desktop in frustration, fear, building tension. "I was hoping we were done with this guy. I was hoping he'd have crawled into some ditch by now and died of a heroin overdose."

"Well, here's to saying he has, and this missing kid is nothing more than that," Cragen said, moving his restless hands from his chest to his pockets. The note of heightening apprehension in Elliot's face worried him, but assumed it was only natural. "I know it's not your favorite case, but we have to go and find her. We are officers of the law, and this is our duty. I want you guys to canvass her school, her neighborhood, and the area in which she was kidnapped to see if we can find a motive for this kidnapping. Missing Person's is currently searching for the girl." He handed out the girl's home address and school name to the detectives. "The witness who saw her get abducted lives at the address on the back of the card. Now get a move on."

Despite their ill feelings, the squad rushed out of the precinct on Cragen's orders and into their respective cars. Though none of them voiced their thoughts on the walk to the garage, it was a mutual four-way understanding that they could not let their past experiences with this case affect how they handled today's operation. Each one of the SVU squad members knew that the victim was the top priority, and even if they were feeling slightly sick from the sudden flashbacks, the implications, and the thoughts of what they were going to encounter, they had no excuse to fail. Their agreements went unspoken, verbal communication between the four unnecessary at this height of their camaraderie. The two cars, both older Ford Taurus models, one black, the other silver, were parked side-by-side in the garage. As they approached, Elliot gave instructions, more out of wanting to break the silence than actually having to tell his team what to do.

"Alright, so John and Fin, take the school. We'll talk to the parents. First ones to finish, go straight to the witness and we'll meet up there, alright?" The three other members of the squad nodded, and with like mind, they climbed into their cars.

* * *

With Elliot and Olivia off in one direction questioning legal guardians, Munch and Fin arrived twenty minutes after leaving the precinct before the old doors of St. Joan's private high school. After being badgered by the school's front office aide to slap unflattering nametag stickers to the front of their shirts, the detectives found themselves traversing the wide courtyard between class buildings behind the school's formidable principal. The large woman crossed the threshold of one of the buildings and sped down the hallway on her way to a flight of stairs.

"It's school policy to have the student's parents call in to inform the school that the student will not be coming in that day," the principal, one Mrs. Sykes, said. She spoke the entire way up two flights of wooden stairs; Munch found himself irritated at the sound of her heavy heels on the polished wood. "If no call was received, and the student has not shown up by the end of first period, we call the house to check with the parents. We did not receive a call from Haley Owens' parents this morning – she's such a diligent student, she's never missed a day of class since she's been enrolled here – so when Ms. Owens had not appeared by nine o'clock, we called the parents."

"And then you found out that you had a missing child on your hands," Munch offered. "And promptly informed the police." Munch's posture was all interested business – stern face, head high, black hat off and held politely at his side – perfectly capable of lulling any un-savvy citizen into a misconception that Munch was paying the utmost attention to their every word. But the few who had the pleasure of knowing the lax Jew on closer terms knew that this was nothing but a front; anyone who had ever coexisted with Munch for longer than ninety minutes would have been able to tell, quite easily, just by the tone in Munch's voice, that the detective was not complying with professionalism, but expressing his distaste for over-extended formalities…or something like that.

One such person fortunate enough to know the ins and outs of John Munch's personality was his partner of about eight years now, Odafin Tutuola. Currently at Munch's side, with his hands in his jacket pockets, Fin raised a questioning eyebrow at his partner's impatience. He read the older man perfectly, and knew that Munch was currently trying his damndest to keep himself from telling the woman to stop _talking_ and start _speaking_. The look on Fin's face suggested that no one had told Fin to bring a sharp tone and short fuse to the canvass. He let the question on the tip of his tongue fade, deciding it better to inquire once the two had some time, and turned his attention back to Mrs. Sykes.

"Does Haley have a lot of friends?" Fin asked, cutting Munch off before the snippy sentence-endings turned into hurtful remarks. "Someone she would tell about any trouble she'd been having."

"Well, from what teachers tell me, she has a lot more acquaintances than she has friends – she's a popular girl, well liked – but she's not very close to a lot of the students. Her closest friend is Caitlin Morgan. I've called her into my office, so if you could follow me, Detectives…" Mrs. Sykes took off once again and turned the corner into a doorway. She pushed the ornate wooden door open and into a small reception area. A young man sat behind a receptionist desk, currently taking care of some business over the phone, and in the chair next to the wall sat a slight blond girl, looking worried. "Caitlin, good morning. These detectives are here to speak to you."

"It's about Haley, isn't it?" the girl asked, rising quickly to attention. "Something's happened to her, I just know it."

Munch gave a sigh, not an annoyed one, but one of concern. At this point, Fin was not very surprised to witness the change in his demeanor. "Haley's been kidnapped. We believe to know who by, but we need to rule anyone else out just be sure. Can you tell us if Haley's been in any kind of trouble lately."

Caitlin shook her head fiercely. "Haley doesn't really have trouble with anyone, sir. She's too relaxed for that kind of thing. Everyone likes her – even some seniors."

"Does anyone like her a little too much?" Fin asked. His young source of information looked confused at his question. "Enough to do something to her?"

"Oh, no. Not at all, really," Caitlin replied. "She holds casual acquaintances with most people. Haley likes hanging around for a laugh and conversation, and she'll help anyone if she can, but for the most part, she keeps her distance. And people generally do the same thing."

"Haley ever accidentally overstep a boundary with someone while joking? Maybe piss someone off and not know it?"

"Naw, Haley never joked too close to the vest," Caitlin said, again shaking her head.

"No one at all comes to mind?" Munch persisted.

"No. Like I said, she's very well-liked," the young girl said. "Even if she had pissed someone off, Haley would realize her mistake immediately and apologize. People are so drawn in by her personality anyway, so they'd be pretty quick to forgive her if she accidentally insulted anyone." She dropped her head in defeat. "This doesn't tell you much, does it? I'm sorry that I can't really help. She's my best friend and there's _nothing_ I can do."

"Hey, chin up," Munch said. "You were more help than you think." He shot a glance at Fin. "At least now we know where to start looking. Thanks, Caitlin."

"You'll find her, right, Detectives?" Caitlin pressed. She was fighting back tears in her brown eyes. "You're gonna get her back from wherever she's gone, right?"

Munch and Fin exchanged a very familiar look. Munch could no longer count the number of times the victim's family and friends had pleaded with them to bring justice to their offended love one. He hated the feeling, but had learned to suppress it far deep down within himself many unfeeling years ago. Looking into Caitlin's watery eyes, Munch nodded curtly and placed his hat back atop his head and gave her the time-tested, victim-approved, practiced answer of all time,

"We'll do everything we can to find Haley, Caitlin."

As he turned and left the room, Munch hoped the girl couldn't tell that his words were cold and hollow.

* * *

Breaking bad news is never easy, especially to parents. And even though this case already held the advantage of the parents having the news half-broken, the strain was still very real and very present. Elliot Stabler had gotten used to the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the slight shaking of his hands, and the quiver in his voice as he approached the victim's loved ones. The trick was in keeping his mind blank and just delivering the news, very much like ripping off a band-aid; though, unlike ripping off a band-aid, one had to have more care in the actual process, because if it came off too quickly, the too-quick release could be confused as apathy. It wasn't something he liked to do, and just because it was something he did on an almost daily basis, he didn't find the task any easier.

That morning when Elliot and Olivia arrived at the Owens family apartment half an hour after splitting from Munch and Fin, Elliot was the one to tell the already-distressed mother that her daughter's captor was most likely a psychotic rapist. If the woman had not been sitting down at the sound of the news, Elliot was willing to bet good money that she would have toppled over onto apartment's polished wood floors. It took ten minutes for Elliot and Olivia to calm Mrs. Owens down to the point where she could hold a glass of water without spilling the liquid everywhere, and another eight before Mrs. Owens regained enough composure to swallow the sedative pill in Olivia's hand. By the time the pair was ready to question her, Mr. Owens had arrived at the apartment, trailed by a red-faced boy and girl, both looking somber.

"Sir, I'm Detective Stabler," Elliot said, quickly flashing the man his badge. Elliot gestured to Olivia, who was making small, quiet conversation with Mrs. Owens on the sitting room couch. "This is my partner, Detective Benson. We've been assigned Haley's case. You're Mr. Owens, her father?"

"Yes," Mr. Owens replied. "Gerald Owens. What can you tell me about my daughter?"

"Mr. Owens, this isn't easy to say, but we have reason to believe that your daughter was kidnapped by a mentally ill person. More specifically, a mentally ill rapist."

Owens went very white in a matter of seconds, and Elliot saw him give a very quick glance in the direction of his younger children. "Jerry, Sarah, take your mother into her bedroom, please, while the detectives and I talk." Now very shaken, the two younger kids led their mother away down the hall, and Olivia rose to join the conversation. "So you're saying Haley's been kidnapped?"

"Haley never made it to school this morning," Olivia recounted. "We need to rule out the positivity of anyone else who may have wanted to abduct Haley, possibly to hurt you. Do you have any disgruntled co-workers?"

"Not that I know of," Mr. Owens answered. "I don't make any enemies for myself in the business world; I have my family to think of." At his own words, Mr. Owens chocked, and held back tears. "There's no reason to kidnap us; we really don't have that much money. And Haley…why Haley? Why not me?"

Elliot sighed deeply and directed his attention at the floor. He would always feel self-conscious about experiencing a person's most humbling intimate and human moments. He felt like he was trespassing somewhere where he didn't belong.

"Mr. Owens, I am really sorry for what you're going through right now," Olivia said. Elliot envied the empathetic tone in her voice. She was so much better at connecting with people, regardless of who they were, than he would ever be. "It's never easy to have something inexplicably taken away from you, but right now, we have to make sure that there is no other reason that Haley may have been abducted." Mr. Owens regained his composure, barely, and looked up at the pair of detectives. Olivia jumped in before he had a chance to relapse. "Is there any one you know who might want to hurt your daughter in any way?"

"No," the father answered. "All she ever brings home from school are, you know, funny little stories. She's never said anything about having someone who bothers her. But Haley keeps a lot of things close to herself, so I'd doubt if she'd tell us if she had a problem."

"No one comes to mind?" Olivia asked. "Perhaps someone in the building?"

"All the contrary, actually," the father said. "I get people telling me how well-behaved and polite my kids are around here. Not a single person comes to mind when you talk about wanting to hurt Haley." He sounded very honest, but still lost for words at the situation. "And I highly doubt this is work-related. The company's so large, any problem is usually management's fault…may I see my wife?"

"Sure, Mr. Owens," Elliot said. "She'll be very calm for the next two hours – we gave her a mild sedative. Just be sure to be there to talk when the medication wears off. Do you mind if we take a very quick look around Haley's bedroom now?"

"Do what you need to do," the father said. "Just please find the person responsible for this."

Like they needed telling twice. Elliot and Olivia walked down the hall into the only bedroom that had an open door. Olivia stepped inside, followed by Elliot, and they knew almost immediately that there was not going to be anything too useful in the room. It was nothing out of the ordinary. The bed was in one corner, parallel to the door. A desk was up against the next wall, right next to the bed, serving as both computer desk and nightstand. The closet at the end of the room was open, revealing clothes, school uniforms, and a general mess of sneakers and one pair high heels. Like any other teen, Haley had a few posters taped to the wall space over her bed and across the room. Elliot found himself feeling dated when he failed to recognize the bands the posters advertised and the colorful characters striking poses on the posters advertising television shows.

Then Elliot realized that there were too many shelves of books in the room. The number was subtle enough to not be noticed at first glance, but large enough so that it was noticeable after a few moments. Loaded bookcases lined the spaces in the walls that weren't obstructed by furniture, and a few single shelves crossed over lower spaces. Every shelf had books on it, some looking neat and untouched, others strewn haphazardly along the shelves because of their popularity. Only one other place came to his mind when he saw the clutter of books and papers.

"This looks like Munch's apartment,"

"She's even got heavy leather-bound books," Olivia said, leaning in closely to the shelves to read the titles. As she moved on, Olivia pointed to some of the shelves. "Half of these are language books. Portuguese, French, Japanese, Russian, and even Czech; then books on how to conjugate verbs and bilingual dictionaries. This kid must really like languages."

"Or have too much time on her hands," Elliot said. He studied the bookcase closest to him. "She likes contemporary fiction. It certainly overruns her collection of Hugo, Dickens, and Shakespeare. There's a lot of foreign literature, too, along with some of those Japanese comics. Eh, apart from the book clutter, I doubt if there's anything telling in these shelves. Anything on the desk?"

"Just a lot of drawings and homework," Olivia replied, closing a drawer with disappointment. From what she could surmise, Haley seemed to be the kind of person who was reserved, but had very little to hide. Olivia found no hidden compartments in her drawers, hiding maybe a secret journal or message from anyone who may be at fault for the girl's current predicament. Her eyes settled on the laptop computer atop the desk, but she doubted there was too much telling information stored within it. She propped it open, slightly surprised to find it running, and smiled rather widely at the desktop background.

"She looks like a very lively, spunky kid," Elliot mused over Olivia's shoulder. In the background picture, a tall, slim girl with dark brown hair and glowing green eyes had one arm thrown casually over the shoulders of a cardboard cutout of TV's favorite cynical doctor, Greg House. She was smiling widely at the camera, green eyes twinkling even through the lens, and gave the photographer a giant peace sign with her fingers. As Elliot looked at the picture, he got a familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Olivia chuckled lightly and began clicking through some files. Mostly music, pictures, and typed documents. "Well, we could give the computer a shot with Forensics. There really doesn't seem to be too much on it, though. So far, the worst thing on it is an ample collection of illegal music."

Elliot rubbed his temples. "Well, that's all we can do here, Liv. We should go see Munch and Fin, maybe they were luckier than us. We have to hurry, though. If this is Mind Games Guy, we have to find Haley before he starts the games…"

Olivia didn't need Elliot to finish his sentence to know why they were in a time-crunch. If Haley _had _been kidnapped by the Mind Games Rapist, they had little time to intervene before he started playing games. Games, Olivia knew, none of his victims had ever survived.

* * *

So much for Chapter 1.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews would be lovely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Yo! After about a week and a half, I believe, I have returned with the second chapter of my story! Thank you to everyone who read, and and even bigger thanks to everyone who reviewed. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. For the record, I'm excited about tonight's premier of season 11; duuuude, I remember when I first started on SVU back in season 7. **

**DISCLAIMER: If I owned L&O:SVU, I'd be Dick Wolf.**

**Onwards!**

**

* * *

**

Munch's mood had yet to improve. Since he had walked out the door of the principal's office and swooped out of the school, Munch had been broody and unusually quiet. Fin had thought nothing of it until they were in the school's parking lot, getting ready to make their way to the witness. Where the pair usually exchanged ideas, assumptions, and conclusions after a canvass (even one as unsuccessful as this one), Munch had told Fin to drive and sat in silence for the majority of the ride to the witness' address. Once Fin had gotten over the initial shock of John Munch, who insisted on driving everywhere lest he become carsick from Fin's less-than-smooth car handling, actually _handing_ him the keys with instructions to operate heavy machinery, Fin had noticed that his partner was not bouncing theories and ideas off of him, but was instead looking pensively out the window. One could always tell that Munch's gears were turning when he had his chin propped up on his hand.

Usually, Fin would have inquired as to Munch's state of mind, but he knew that doing that today would be tasteless and unnecessary. While he had been caught off guard by how quickly Munch had been to anger with the school principal, Fin needed no explanation as to why his partner was so edgy. Fin knew that the look in Munch's eyes was one of remorse and anger at himself; he knew what Munch was thinking. And all the talking in the world would not be enough to convince John Munch that he was wrong in his thinking.

It was very clear that Munch was blaming himself for the present situation.

And as understandable as that was, it simply was not right of him to do so. As he allowed his partner wallow in silence, Fin recalled how personally Munch had taken their three for nothing score with this case. A year and a half ago, when SVU had first picked up the case, Cragen had appointed Munch as Primary Detective. Always one to take his work seriously, Munch had worn himself out following obscure traces, interrogating suspicious people, and writing up reports; this task was made even harder by the fact that the case was littered with horrible deeds of victim mutilation, torture, and rape. The entire squad had delved into the disturbing case with high hopes of finding and capturing their perpetrator. But three days into it, Fin remembered everyone in the squad having a very strong negative reaction to it. They spoke of general uneasiness and sleepless nights, startling images engraved in their minds. At the end of those days, when their painstaking labor and sacrifice of their mental well-being had proved inconclusive and insufficient to find the person responsible, they had all been very relieved to see the case go away, even if they had known it would be back for them. Munch had been disappointed in himself, but his years on the force had taught him well that not every case was a simple open and close, so he had taken the blow in stride.

When the case resurfaced, Munch and the squad had again chased down their possible leads and witnesses, but come to nothing. The trail had suddenly gone cold one day, and they had been stumped wondering where to go. It had been as if suddenly none of their traces had made sense, their suspects didn't match, and their evidence pointed in every direction possible. At one point, Elliot had frustratingly expressed how it seemed that they were pulling every sick, twisted pedophilic pervert in New York off the streets, expect for the one they needed. This particular chapter in the case had been even more gruesome than the first, prompting each detective to set up a mental barrier or emotional stopper to keep themselves from being too affected. The strategy had worked, of course, but only to a point. During those two days, it had been easy to see which detective picked which barrier: Elliot had suddenly become edgy and snapped at anyone who sounded like they might have been disagreeing with him; he had never been good at turning off emotions. Munch withdrew into the confines of his mind, analyzing evidence, clues, and over-thinking everything just to keep himself from feeling. Fin remembered how only himself and Olivia had been able to find a suitable balance between the two options and function somewhat-properly; he wasn't sure just how affected Olivia had found herself, but in Fin's case, his coolness in the office caused him nightmares in his sleep.

Their most recent encounter, however, had been the worst by far. Not only had the level of bodily mutilation among the victims escalated to the point where Dr. Warner had been forced to identify the bodies using dental records, but the perpetrator had actually begun to like taunting them, Munch in particular. This, of course, did not help the fact that Munch very much cared about the victims and their well-being, and often managed to make a strong connection with them. His compassion and empathy, which served him so well, had trapped him. Once again taking up leads and evidence, SVU had come to realize a common factor within the case; further expansion of this theory by Munch and Elliot had led them to the beautiful conclusion of who their perpetrator was. Cragen had been difficult to convince, as his reservations about the possible suspect had made the most sense. Munch had argued passionately and incessantly with him for the better part of three hours before convincing the captain that their move was the correct one. After calling in a special favor, Cragen had signed the order to allow Munch to lead a full-scale SWAT assault on an upstate country home. The assault operation had run smoothly, as if making up for the fact that they had gone through so much trouble to get there; they had found the victim alive in the basement of the country house, but she had died within minutes of SVU arriving. When the arrested suspect's only plea of innocence, "I didn't fuckin' do it!", proved to be insufficient and his alibis did not check out, the case had been closed.

It was a horrible surprise three months later to find an envelope addressed to all four SVU detectives and their captain containing pictures of the perpetrator's latest victim. Words did not exist to describe the feeling of such a powerful slap in the face. Not only did it mean that they had once again failed to capture the real suspect and bring him to justice, but it meant that they had done someone innocent a terrible injustice. The horror and hurt that comes with realizing that the world is just that bit more dangerous all over again is a feeling that can put even the most seasoned sex crimes detective out of his mind. After hearing the news of their misdeed, Captain Cragen had been livid, positively on fire at Munch's fatal mistake; it was the first time Fin had heard the veteran captain use foul words when speaking to any of his subordinates.

But his anger had not compared to that of Munch. Munch had not refuted any of Cragen's shouts and insults, and instead felt that he deserved every drop of unprofessionalism his captain had given him. Munch had been angry, snappy, and at the point of raging outbreaks for days on end. He had kept saying how innocent women and young children were losing their lives day after day and he had no idea how to help them. He continually said that he had failed, that he was no good to anyone, and that people would continue to die because of his stupid mistake; he had been an inconsolable mess for weeks. After his initial flare of anger had subsided, much had become very quiet and easily irritable around the precinct. Everyone had been careful not to bring anything regarding the Mind Games Rapist to his attention, and when they did, to use supreme caution, like employing Fin to deliver the news. Munch's tirade of bad moods had finally ended one very late night at the 1-6 when he had literally knocked everything off his desk, sent the drawers and their contents flying to land elsewhere in the bullpen, literally flipped his desk, and huffed out of the squad room. Olivia, who had been left in the wake of Hurricane John, had patiently waited fifteen minutes before making a routine round to the roof, where she had found Munch. A lengthy conversation later, the pair had returned to the bull pen, straightened out the mess, and gone out for drinks.

SVU had taken some very hard criticism from the public, the courts, and, of course, One PP, which had taken a very hard swing at their moment of human error. The squad had suddenly found themselves the butt of a lot of jokes and heavy teasing from other police divisions. Cragen had lost most of his credibility among the more senior police officers. Worst of all, and very much apart from the fall of their reputation, the SVU squad was mostly worried that this erroneous conviction meant that there was still a real danger wandering the streets of New York. So Fin knew that this time, they must not fail. It was not an option, not even a remote possibility. They had to capture the societal menace. And as he glanced over at the man in the passenger's seat next to him, Fin knew that Munch would not rest until this case was properly solved; he wasn't doing this for himself, Fin knew. No, Munch had to clear up his mistake for all the people who had died at the hands of the maniac so that they may finally rest in peace.

Pulling up at the witness' given address, Fin turned the car off and waited for a moment before turning to Munch. Fin was astounded that Munch had remained quiet for the entirety of the ride, when it was his usual protocol to complain about Fin's driving every three or so miles. "You ready, John?"

"Let's go," Munch said, placing his hat once again a top his head. He swung the door open and stepped onto the sidewalk, his gaze following the building up to its third story, wherein lived their witness. He eyed one of the four balconies on the third floor and swept across the street to where the crime had allegedly taken place. "Missing Person's must have moved on from here. Time to find out why this guy saw the crime happen but did nothing to stop it."

* * *

The world began settling back into focus.

The swirling colors that had circled her head for so long were finally beginning to solidify into distinguishable shapes. This time, the shapes stayed where they formed and didn't float off into a general congregation of grey nothingness, which is what they had been doing for as long as she cared to recollect. At the feeling of finally being able to distinguish what was light, what was dark, and what was really there, Haley Owens allowed herself to feel the least bit triumphant. She had beaten it. She had managed keep herself from succumbing to the horrible stuff that had been on the rag. And now, at long last, it was finally wearing off.

Even as Haley formed the thought in her lethargic mind, her head felt lighter, but not light to the point where she would be dizzy again. Just light enough for her to be able to lift it without feeling the horrible urge to throw up from the strain of her neck working against gravity. Haley was vaguely aware that the back of her head was throbbing, yet the ache became more present as she become more clear-headed.

Still lying on her back, arms spread at her sides as if she had passed out after creating a particularly intricate snow angel, Haley followed the intensifying pain from its origin in her head down into the rest of her body. The pain settled in her back, pooling somewhere between her hips and shoulder blades, and burned. Her stomach, unsurprisingly, was churning like an upset ocean. She took deep breaths to steady its temper, but gained nothing from it save a sore chest. Haley closed her eyes, not ready for the visual world just yet, and recollected the events of the day.

She had awoken to the dreadful sound of her alarm clock after another fit of insomnia. Her third, she noted pointedly, sleepless night in a row. Sadly, this was nothing new; Haley had suffered from insomnia for the past nine years, and her current record of sleeplessness stood at one full week without sleep. Usually her fits happened within days of each other, lying awake one night and sleeping badly the next, but the fact she had spent over seventy-two hours without achieving REM sleep worried Haley. She was not interested in breaking her present record. Taking her disappointing night in stride, Haley had hopped out of bed and gotten ready for school. By seven in the morning, Haley had been shooed out of the apartment by her temperamental mother, who had insisted that Haley take her breakfast to go because she was running late, and hadn't even given Haley a chance to explain how her tardiness was due to her younger sister monopolizing the hallway bathroom.

Her walk to school took a little over thirty minutes, and though she could have walked it easily with the time she had, Haley had jogged the majority of the way to school, stopping only to catch her breath when she had a few blocks to go. She had hit the offensive block at around seven-twenty. She had walked to school countless times, and never thought twice about making her way down a few city blocks. Minding her own business, Haley had made it quickly down the block when someone had grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into an alley.

Instinctively, knowing something was very wrong, Haley had begun to struggle. She had kicked, flailed, stomped, and even tried to bite herself out of the sickeningly strong grasp. Her protests had earned her a rag to the face – it had smelled sweet, then rotten as it pressed against her mouth, nose and cheeks. The smell had made her feel sick and weak. Her head had spun, her throat had begun to burn. Haley had pretended to pass out long enough for her assailant to loosen his grip, ripped out of his hands, and taken off down the alley only to collapse from sheer ill-feeling and disorientation. In her mad escape, she had toppled over a garbage can and fallen flat onto her face into its lid. She had found herself unable to get back up, and was dragged away by a man in a red baseball cap.

And now she was here.

And she didn't know what here was. Which was a problem. A very big problem. Her abductor, because now she knew she had, in fact, been kidnapped, had spoken all of two words. He had thrown her onto the cold concrete floor where she currently lay and instructed gruffly to "Wait here". Not that the order was necessary, as Haley would not have been able to go anywhere in her heavily drugged state. She couldn't even recall what the voice had sounded like; it had just been an instruction that echoed through her mind in a dull, empty tone. _Wait here. Wait here._

As Haley groggily sat up, she wondered just how long she had been "waiting here", wherever here was. A few hours, maybe; maybe, more. Slowly, she took in her surroundings: the thick-looking walls with chipping white paint and the steel-lined ceiling of her holding pen. She sat on hard, dirty concrete, which had dark stains running across it. She knew it was blood, but refused to accept it. The room was relatively large, a very big square, with a heavy steel door on one end and a small rectangular window at the very top of the right wall. Through the thick glass and bars, yellow sunlight streamed lazily into the cell. Haley was suddenly reminded of an old-fashioned meat freezer, the kind butchers stacked giant blocks of dry ice in to keep the hanging meat fresh.

Haley ran a hand down her face, wiping sweat from her brow, cheeks, and eyes. Her head rolled toward her chest, protesting Haley's imprudent assumption that it was ready to be held high by her neck. "What a mess," she said, talking into her school sweater. "What a fuckin' mess." Her watch glistened in the incoming sunlight, shining a small white reflection onto the ceiling. The time read 11:03 am. Assuming it was still the day of her abduction, Haley realized she had been missing for a little under four hours.

Haley thought of her parents. Had they been informed yet? Or for that matter, had anyone noticed her sudden absence? Would the school call home to tell her parents she never showed? Would they call the police? Were there officers currently scouring New York City for her? For some reason, Haley thought of her mother more than her father. If her mother knew, then she was probably in hysterics at the moment. Haley knew her mother couldn't remain calm under normal circumstances, like being separated at the mall, or letting Haley ride the train by herself, and couldn't even begin to image what her mother's state of mind was now that her daughter had been kidnapped by someone with the intent to harm. Haley's siblings were at school, so they probably didn't know yet. And they were probably better off for it. In a second of childish imagination, Haley pictured herself escaping from this room and rushing back home before her siblings even got out of school. She would get home before them, and when they arrived, nothing would be out of place. Everything would be alright.

She was surprised how the first thing that had come to her mind had been her family, and not escape. But when she took a look around the room a second time, she realized why escape had not occurred to her. It was impossible. The ceiling was lined with steel, the floor was concrete, the door was solid steel (and very probably locked); the only possible option was the window. But even that was improbable. The window on the right wall was at least seven feet up, something she would never be able to reach at her height of five-foot-six. On top of that, the damn thing was barred. She frowned and let herself fall back onto the ground. "God damn it…"

A sudden noise from beyond the door brought Haley back from her thoughts. She looked toward the door, half-expecting it to be burst open at any given second by the wild man with the beard and cap. She sat up as quickly as her hurting body allowed, and stared at the door. Nothing happened. _I imagined it. Just my head playing tricks on me…_She felt no reassurance in the still silence so she spoke aloud to keep herself from being flooded by more fear than she was already feeling. "I must have imagined it." She was surprised at how confident her voice sounded.

Haley got to her feet, her knees shaking, and walked as best she could to the door. She placed her palm flat upon it, and winced at the cold steel that greeted her touch. A very long handle was set into the left side of the door. She knew the door was locked, probably by a thick chain and a sizable bolt on the other side of the wall, but Haley gripped the metal handle anyway. She held her breath before pushing down hard on the handle. Nothing happened. The handle didn't even budge. She pushed down again to the same result. "Damn it." She pushed down harder the third time, just to make sure she really _had _tried to open it. Nothing. She began tugging the handle, wanting nothing more than to rip it from the door, or better yet, tear the door from its hinges and step into freedom. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

Her frantic tugging turning to pounding. She began beating the door savagely with her fists, pummeling them into the unmoving steel. "Won't you budge! Move, get out of my way! I have to get home! I have to get home!" Her punches became more vicious, less careful, and insistent. "I need help in here! Please, someone help me!" She angrily let go of the handle and kicked the door. "SHIT!"

Haley stopped, suddenly exhausted, and listened for anything on the other side of the door. The only thing she heard was the echo of her frustrated voice on the bare walls, her curse ringing in her ears like an unfavorable verdict. Her breath was coming in rasps and her hands were shaking at her sides. Agitation ran through her entire body like an electric current. "Goddammit, sunovabitch!" She banged her head against the door, "I'm fuckin' screwed."

The thought hit her suddenly, as if someone had winded her. Her words sank in this time, full of meaning and implication, and it was as if the world had caved in on top of her. The realization crushed her. Feeling her knees start to go weak, Haley sat down before the door as a wave of panic and hopelessness engulfed her. She caught herself before another attack erupted from within her body, and sighed, "Relax, Haley. Calm down, girl. Just breathe." She took a deep breath and let out the tense air from her lungs. "Think. There must be a way out, there must be a way out. There always is."

But even as she said it, she knew she was lying to herself. Where, exactly, was the way out of a steel-enforced basement cell? She had no idea, either. Still breathing heavily, Haley convinced herself that there was no way she could do anything until her captor came back. He was the only one, she assumed, that had keys to the door, so he would have to come back and open it sometime. She would have to take her chances with the madman if she wanted to escape. Face him, overcome him, escape him. That was her plan, and that was what she had to mentally prepare herself for.

Facing the door with fear, apprehension, and a goal in mind, Haley sat and waited.

* * *

The reason Miranda T. Emerson had witnessed the kidnapping of Haley Owens from the safety of her third-story balcony and done nothing to stop the crime in progress was because she was in a wheelchair. Paralyzed from the waist down, Miranda had been witness to the kidnapping but been powerless to stop it, and had instead alerted the authorities before the kidnapping had even been finalized. "By the time I rolled out of here, they probably would have been gone – I didn't really want to lose sight of the two so I could know where they were going. I live alone, so it's not as if I could have very well sent someone to help the girl."

"Why didn't you call out to the kidnapper when you saw what he was doing?" Fin asked.

"I don't know if he was armed or anything," Miranda replied. "I didn't want him to be startled and hurt the girl because he knew someone was watching him. I mean, what if he'd shot her and run off?"

Fin nodded at the logic behind her answer. He sat down on one of the apartment's couches next to Munch, who had eaten his words seconds after being greeted by Miranda. Munch leaned forward on his knees to face Miranda. "Did you see him clearly?"

"Yes, he was a tall man, he was White, wearing a faded denim jacket and a red baseball cap. He had a thin beard, like a goatee – I saw his face as best anyone could from ten feet away and three stories up," she said. "The girl was slightly shorter than he, wearing a school uniform, brown hair, heavy-looking backpack." She looked at the floorboards. "She was so scared. I'll never forget the look in her eyes."

Munch suddenly felt a knot form in his throat. The man Miranda had described fit the picture of their suspect all too well; he began to feel fear and worry creep into him. Munch cleared his throat, and continued, "Can you recount the actual crime for us? What you saw and maybe anything Haley may have left behind?"

Miranda nodded, "She…Haley…always walks through here to get to school. I happen to see her every now and then if I'm at the window when she happens to be passing through. You know, it's funny…I never learned her name until today. Anyway, the man snuck out of an alley after she passed it, and I guess Haley didn't really think it odd that someone would be walking behind her on the sidewalk. He followed her for a few feet before grabbing her and shoving something into her mouth." Miranda cringed. "Haley fought and kicked, but the guy still dragged her away, back into the alleyway."

"If we brought in a sketch artist, do you think you would be able to work with them?" Fin asked.

Miranda nodded. "I suppose I could give it a shot. I did get a clean look at his face, but like I said, he was about fifteen feet away from me and a good thirty below me."

"Right, well thanks for your time, Ms. Emerson," Munch said with a sigh. He got to his feet quickly, and shook the woman's hand. "We may have to contact you again in the event of a line-up so that you can identify him for us. Have a good day."

"Anything I can do to help, I will," Miranda replied, playing absently with the wheels on her chair as the detectives made to let themselves out of the apartment. "I hope you find her, Detectives."

Fin nodded in understanding, as did Munch, and the pair walked from the apartment without another word. "Alright, so I did a little preemptive judging on our dear witness."

Fin snorted. "Is that what we're calling asinine assumptions nowadays? Though I gotta say the look on your face when she opened the door was priceless." Munch shot a glance at his partner, a very reluctant smirk breaking over his lips despite his struggle to keep his face straight. Fin smiled back victoriously at the sense of his partner's good mood returning. _He's had his brood, now he's on his way back to normal. _

"You smile as if you know what I'm thinking," Munch said with a hint of humor.

Fin shrugged, "Those glasses may shield you from the rest of the world, John, but to me, they're just like magnifying glasses. You're my Jew, after all." The term, which Munch had once detested because of its crassness, had grown on him to become a term of endearment uttered only by his detective partner, and on rare occasions when said partner felt like remind Munch he was not alone.

"And you're my boy, Fin," Munch replied, retaliating the feeling. He gave Fin a mock punch on the shoulder and a wide smile as they exited the building. When Munch got to the car, he looked up across the street and stopped. "You wanna give the alley a quick canvas? I know Missing Person's already combed it, but they were looking for a lost girl, not necessarily signs of a rapist."

"Fair enough," Fin said. The pair walked across the street to the alley, retracing what they'd pieced together to be Haley's final steps before the kidnapping. Physically acting out the scene Miranda Emerson had described to them, Fin began walking down the sidewalk, while Munch awaited in the alley. "So she's walking along here, and sees someone out of the corner of her eye…" Fin passed the alley and continued on his way, whereupon Munch crept out of it and began to follow him.

"But she doesn't really take him into account because she guesses he's just another pedestrian on the street," Munch finished, coming up behind Fin faster than any normal pedestrian with common sense or a set of personal boundaries would have been comfortable with.

"So she just keeps walking along, minding her business." Fin continued, walking ahead of his quickly-approaching partner in a normal stride. "And doesn't notice that the guy's creeping up on her until it's too late." He turned to see Munch's face inches from his. "But they then, he's already got her and gags her with…"

Munch clapped a hand over Fin's mouth and held his arms behind his back. He pondered for a moment what the perpetrator could have used to knock the girl out, and the answer came to him instantly. "He gags her with a rag of chloroform! Oldest trick in the book! So she struggles against it until it takes effect" – at this point, Fin went slightly limp in Munch's arms for the sake of play-acting – "and he drags her off into the alley."

"Maybe he discarded the rag in here before taking off," Fin suggested. They perused the alley for a sign of anything that would prove useful in the gagging on an unsuspecting victim. When they had exited the alley one street up from the one where they'd entered, Fin finally saw something that caught his eye. "John…"

Munch wandered over to him, spying a clump of overturned garbage burying a maroon corner flapping in the morning breeze. The detectives approached it carefully, as if they were scared that too hasty a movement would make the flapping corner aware of their presence, and it would, in turn, scamper and hide. Fin grabbed the corner carefully and pulled from under the trash heap, a decent-sized maroon rag. He held it aloft at eye-level with both his and Munch's faces. Munch brought his face closer and sniffed the rag. At first, he could smell nothing but the acrid stench of garbage, but upon clearing his nose and taking a second whiff, he noted the very faint smell of a sweet, tangy substance that quickly turned rotten. "Bingo. This rag's defiantly had chloroform on it. But most of it has evaporated. We should get in into a bag before the rest of it goes."

"I've got some plastic bags in the car," Fin said. He straightened up and began to hustle in step with Munch toward the other end of the alley and ultimately to the car. "We could probably lift some DNA from this. Some hairs, maybe even saliva samples."

Munch felt his world jump with excitement at the possibility of having _actual _DNA. It was the fastest he had gotten to the perpetrator ever in one of these cases, and he was filled with renewed hope at the finding. He ignored the cynical, pessimistic tones in the back of his mind that were beginning to creep into his consciousness. The negative thoughts that told Munch that there was very little good a rag could do them, that it was unlikely that anyone's DNA was on it, that he had failed again. But Munch pushed the thoughts back and ignored the beginnings of frustration wanting to reenter his system. He didn't want to let it happen, not twice in the same day.

As sudden gust of wind ambushed them in alley, and Munch felt the warm perched atop his head disappear and be replaced by a very unwelcome chill as his hat was lifted and carried away back down the alley. His hands clasped around his head, too late to grab what he was really aiming for, and he cried out needlessly, "My hat!"

Fin broke his stride and turned to see Munch walking quickly down the alley to catch the black hat, currently rolling jovially along on its rim, as if enjoying the sudden romp. Fin suppressed a laugh at his partner's expense and continued to walk towards the car. "I'm gonna go get the bag. I'll be right back."

Without turning, Munch gave a slight wave to acknowledge his partner's announcement, and continued to fixedly follow his headwear. When the hat rolled to a stop at the end of the alley, Munch had trotted over to find that the rim was now dirty, but that the hat had narrowly missed a gooey lump of something green before settling into the concrete. He bent to pick it up, thinking that maybe his good look today would continue to spill into his workday, when he noticed a pair of boots appear next to his hat. He raised his eyes to see who the owner of the boots was. Through the sunlight falling into his eyes, Munch was only able to discern a beard and cap of some sort before he was clubbed in the head for his troubles.

He was not aware what, exactly, had made contact with his skull, Munch was just able to register some seconds before passing out that it had hurt, badly. His knees went inexplicably limp, and his body jerked forward suddenly exhausted. Munch dropped onto the hard concrete sidewalk without a sound and was effortlessly dragged away.

* * *

**Play the dramatic music, Johnny! Well, this is chapter two, hope you enjoyed it. I felt it was a but lackluster, but I'll make it up in Chapter 3. **

**As always, reviews are LOVE.**

**-Greens **


End file.
